


Watch and Learn

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brave Reader, Dean Masturbates, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Helpful Dean, It's pretty sexy, Masturbation, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Reader-Insert, Sam being observant, Sex, Sexual Content, Showering Dean, Showers, Surveillance, Undercover, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, and Dean is ridiculously turned on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-28
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-28 15:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5095028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve never gone undercover before and you’re relying on Dean to be your eyes and ears while Sam burgles from your ‘date’.  With some Dutch courage, bravery and a little help from Dean, you finally get your groove.  And, oh my goodness does that groove get got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Demonstration

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from my tumblr account.

“I’m about to snap someone’s finger.”

Sam smirks at you as you sit on the stool next to him. “I don’t envy you,” he mutters before sipping his drink.

“I forgot how much just walking through one of these places can be a contact sport.” You smooth down the fabric by your thighs and wait for the bartender. You look around the venue, wondering who thought “under lighting” with florescent white was ever going to flatter anyone. _At least I only have one chin,_ you figure, picking again at your hem.

<OK, our guy has arrived. He’s on his way in.> Dean’s voice chirps in your ear, the little transmitter taking all the rumble from his tenor.

“You need to stop doing that,” Sam advises. “It makes you look uncomfortable. You’re not showing your ass but even if you were it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“I know,” you moan. “I can’t remember the last time I had this much leg unclothed without being by a shower.”

<You only do that sort of thing in the bathroom, Y/N?>  

Sam notes your expression and asks “Dean giving you shit?”

“As if being on remote would keep him from giving me shit,” you say. Even though you cross your fingers he’ll pack it in at some stage, realistically you’re still steeling yourself for some damn unhelpful commentary along the way.

“Okay, there’s our guy,” Sam nods, keeping himself hunched and low over the bar. “You okay to go?”

<How’s he look in the flesh, Y/N?> 

“Welllll,” you consider, knowing how intimate this may need to get. “A few inches shorter than you.”

<They’re all shorter than me.>

“Most people don’t include their ego.”

<Pfff. How’s he look?>

“He’s not hard to look at.” The target mingles and flashes a smile, and you get a better look at his profile. “Not bad actually. Your kind of physique, a bit darker than you. Looks young for his age… maybe… Chris Pine’s half-Greek cousin? Little less charisma?”

<Lucky guy.  Okay, well, I’m here and Sam’s ready to come to the rescue if you can’t handle him yourself.>

“Thanks,” you say. “Hey, just keep in mind, if I ask a question I might be wanting you to answer too.”

<Okaaaay… I’ll assume that’ll make sense later.>

“Sam,” you say, grabbing your drink and standing, “come bump me into him.”

Sam stands and walks behind you. You run your hands over your black wrap-around dress for the last time. You’re sure it’ll cling to your chest and form, but it still feels rather alien. _Naked_ , really.

As you approach, Sam makes to walk past, as though he’s in a hurry, and elbows you into your target so that your drink sloshes over the guy’s hip.

“Oh shit!” you squeak.

 _“Shit,”_ he bursts.

“Shit, I’m so sorry! This wall of guy just-”

“Yeah, I saw him,” he says. “What a dick!”

“Can I-” you chew your lip while looking at the stain, “I dunno, you want me to go rinse and dry it in the bathrooms?”

“No!” he smiles at you and you look up, pretending to be noticing him for the first time. You smile and swallow and look relieved.

“No-no,” he turns to face you properly and seems to have forgotten about the spill. “No need for that but, ah…” he pauses for a bit, watching to see if you’ll keep smiling at him. “Would you mind sitting with me for a while?”

“Sure,” you answer.

<Oh my god! He _likes you!_ >  You hear Dean’s little patty-claps in the background. Thankfully, your target is already shepherding you and doesn’t notice your pinched expression. Having Dean’s voice in your head is freaking disconcerting.

He guides you over to a VIP corner, not an idea you love. You don’t need to be noticed while you do what you’re doing tonight, but this guy is so well connected that it’s unlikely you’ll go without comment anyway. Who the hell is this chick, they’ll say.

Hopefully, acting shy and grateful will keep you from drawing attention. That, and looking completely different to your usual get-up of jeans, boots and jacket, sans make-up. You work your way in, thankful it’s quieter than the rest of the bar. The plan, at this stage, is to act interested and flattered enough to make going back to his pace to seem predictable. The shyness, plus some awkward bravado, should be enough to help any unexpected code-abort be somewhat realistic.

Sam hovers at the bar, keeping you within his field of view, and chats with a girl who seems very interested in him. Poor lass.

Your target – Jules – is quickly on board with things progressing. You ask him questions about what he does – an antiques collector – and you make small talk about his latest acquisition. His hand is on your knee within 15 minutes, and you’re very thankful that Dean’s keeping the commentary to a minimum: you need to focus on this.

“Y/N,” Jules murmurs, almost against your ear, “that dress does awesome things for your body.”

<Oh God.  It begins.>

“It does awesome things for me,” he continues.

“You want to try it on?” you offer coyly.

“Whatever it takes to get that thing off you,” he says, letting his lips work against your ear.

<Uuuuh, Jesus, I don’t know how you’re keeping a straight face but I bet you are.>

“Do you think,” you blot your lips together, putting your drink down, “we could go somewhere more quiet?”

<Was that directed at me?>

Jules perks up immensely. “How’s my place sound?”

“Yes and yes,” you smile.

<Ugh, fine… good work though.> 

Sam notices you, but you don’t worry about making eye contact. You know he’s got your back and there’s no need for him to chase you out. Dean is out there with eyes on the door; Jules’ car is already located and known,

Jules wraps his arm around your waist and you head out. He makes an effort to get his lips as close to you as possible whenever the crowd pushes you together, brushing them on your neck, and stroking wisps of hair back into your up-do at times, but otherwise he keeps a warm palm on any curve he can reach. Strangely, it isn’t unpleasant. He seems like a relatively nice guy so far and you are a-o-kay with not hating him, despite being in the midst of robbing him of a prized East-European spell book.

You step out into the cool air and let Jules walk you to his car.

<There she is.  Lookin’ good Y/N.  Remember we’re probably going to lose contact in transit so I’m going to leave you to it.  We’ll be in position as quick as we can. Catch you soon.>

You emphatically tug your ear lobe on the side Jules can’t see - <Roger that 99> \- and bite down on your smile.

The impala had pulled out and headed off before you’d done up your seatbelt. You let Jules focus on driving through the winding hills to his tucked away designer home. The media surrounding the house’s sale meant you’d all already scoured each room’s layout online.

As you gazed beyond the headlight’s beam, you try not to think about how uncomfortable it is having Dean doing this. You know he’s the better person for it, and Sam is just fine at breaking and entering, but the relationship you’ve developed with Dean isn’t that clear and stuff like this doesn’t help. He flirts with most women but is respectful and professional with anyone who doesn’t take his fancy. Professional was a good word to describe the way he’s treated you over the months. “Arm’s length” might be another. “Distant” certainly defined some interactions. But then he’ll also shit-stir whenever he can. It’s just that eye contact wasn’t great unless you were in the middle of a hunt, or when he was checking if you’re okay – he rarely ever looks at you during conversation. It wasn’t like he was _never_ playful it just wasn’t-  Anyway, _anyway,_ now isn’t the time to analyse why having his voice tucked into your subconscious is scrambling your emotions. You’re turning into a driveway.

After rolling down the avenue of lights and pulling up to the modern house, you let Jules trot around to open your side, all smiles and hands. As he closes the door he slides himself over you and presses you against the car, coming in close and kissing you. You try not to be surprised, to match him at least, but he’s starting off open-mouthed and insistent. The best you can do is hold your ground and put a hand on his neck.

“Mmm, you taste gorgeous,” he sighs into your cheek.

You take a deep breath, feeling the lack of supervision. “You’re quite the kisser,” you answer. _Well… it’s not a lie._

“Thanks,” he sighs and laces his fingers through yours.

He walks you to the house, sending occasional smiles your way. The middle third of the wall is a floor-to-ceiling wooden door. It hinges in the middle and you step through to a well-lit, cavernous, retro home. The layout is familiar, but to actually stand in it is intimidating.

“Holy… wow,” you breathe as he beep away at the security system. You turn to look at him, saying “This is a big house.” In your peripheral vision you see him disarm all the house’s zones. Bingo.

“Yeah,” he says, walking past you to the long island bench across the room. The kitchen behind it is recently updated, silver appliances standing out. On the left end is the entrance to an entertainment room; at the right, you can see the steps leading down to the rest of the house, split over another two levels. That’s where Sam will be squirrelling about, trying to locate that book.

To your left is a table for ten in front of a manicured garden of grey stone, grass and foliage, complete with hanging basket chairs and a nondescript sculpture. To the right is a sunken lounge area – a square horse-shoe of firm cushions, and pillows and throws - facing a wall of window. The decor is his, or new: grey tones, soft mustards with aqua highlights, in a 60s style.

“This is… are all the rooms this big?” You ask, coming to the benchtop. Jules is pouring some drinks from the 'bar’ end of the set up.

“This is the biggest, but yeah,” he shrugs, “they’re all large.” He plonks in a few cubes of ice and hands you yours.

“Got a straw?” you ask. You’d watched him make the drinks, both from the same bottle, yet you still can’t trust someone you don’t know to give you a drug-clean glass.

“Sure,” he answers, happy to be able to fill the request. You still hesitate, even with two people to save your ass. “Most of the house is dedicated to acquisitions. I’d say I only use about four or five rooms for actual living.”

“Right, yeah,” you nod and take a sip of your Dutch courage. Jules meets you at the end of the bench and gestures toward the lounge area. He follows you down the few steps and you pause to look out the window. Distant, twinkling house lights are now visible in the black.

“You know, I wouldn’t notice what’s out there,” Jules murmurs, pressing his body against your back, “if I had you here all day.” He slips his arm across your belly and nips at the shell of your ear.

“So, you didn’t buy it for the view?”

“Nope.”

<View looks pretty damn good from here.>

You look out into the darkness and fill your lungs, relief and control washing over you. Not for the first time, you thank your lucky stars that you’re working with others. You’re not sure who to thank that it’s the Winchesters.

“You wanna sit down?” Jules offers.

You take your time, letting your eyes roam around the room again while Dean fills you in.

<OK, we’re set up.  Sam’s in and I’ve got him on com if we need him.  Let you know soon as he’s out…  Relax, Y/N.  You’re debut is goin’ great.>

Jules picks a spot near the corner of the suite, toward the kitchen. His back is almost to the other rooms and it occurs to you that if you want to keep his focus – and ears – pointing away from any noise Sam might make, you’ll have to straddle him if things get going. _Maybe on the floor? -No, too much. Not that straddling doesn’t-_

“How you doing?” he murmurs, turning his body to you.

“I’m good,” you answer, and smile demurely.

“What’s this?” he taps his ear.

You frown a little wondering if you’ve given a signal at all and then realise he’s seen the earpiece. _“Oh!_   Oh, I’m…” you feign awkwardness. “I’m a little bit deaf in that ear. You’d think the yelling people do in clubs would cover it but it’s just a mess of noise in there. It’s easier than redirecting people to my other side.”

Jules nods kindly. “It’s discreet.”

“Yes. And pricey, but worth it,” you nod. “To be honest, ear plugs are best. They block out a lot of fuzz and treble, but somehow aren’t that sexy.”

He smiles and nods.

You add, hopefully, “The technology though… I can’t,” you shrug, annoyed. “This side doesn’t manage the sound like the good one. Everything’s just _louder.”_ You gesture emphatically, your fingers snapping open at the description.

“It is uncomfortable?”

“Sometimes. Up close it is,” you sip.

<You’re a fucking genius.>

 _I lie like a rug,_ you think.

“Then I’ll be sure to whisper how hot you are into your other ear,” he says lowly. You look at him and wait as he sits up. He leans forward to place his drink on the table, then comes close and reaches for your jaw. You follow his lead and let him kiss you. It’s smoother and softer than it was outside. You let him lead, tongue reaching and lapping, and then he tries to hold you tighter.

<Sam’s workin’ fast.  Hang tight, Y/N.>

Dean speaks quietly now, since there’s no competing noise. He sounds farther away.

Jules shifts his body and gets a hand at your waist and you lift your feet off the ground to get your knees on the seat, turning clumsily. He slides his reach up to your breast and massages firmly as he kisses down your jaw. It’s not that uncomfortable so you let him do what he wants for a while.

<Might want to try relaxing a bit, Y/N.>  Dean must see you pinching your lips and looking around. 

<Deep breath, just roll your shoulders back,> you do as he instructs, <maybe get your hands on him.>

You put your drink on the table and lay a hand on Jules’ shoulder.  

<Yeah, you’re gonna have to turn towards him, so you aren’t stalking the doorway,… yeah, that’s it.>

You shift and focus on breathing into it and relaxing. You close your eyes and try to imagine being alone with Jules and wanting to have him. But you don’t want him… Then your mind thinks of the terrible inflictions you’ve tolerated at the hands of demons and vampires, your blood across the room, your pain echoing… this should be the easiest torture you’ve ever tolerated.

Jules is still kissing away at you, sliding his hands over your form and generally getting himself quite worked up.

Dean’s voice gets you back in the room:  <You look sexy, Y/N.  Real sexy. You can _feel_ sexy if you want. >

You try arching your back a bit and tilting your chin to give Jules some space. You need him engaged and focused on you, for Sam’s sake.

<Yeah, that’s it,> Dean says softly, watching you make an effort.  You begin a shallow surge, like you’re rocking your hips against the couch, letting Dean’s encouragement build your confidence.  <Nice, he’s gonna be occupied for ages.  That’s it, roll with it… yeah… you can do this.>

Jules’ hands get around your rib cage as he comes back to kiss your mouth for a while and it gives you some time to get your bearings. He works his way back down your neck again, leaving at least one hickey. _Well, that’s a different kind of battle wound…_

Then he pinches your nipple, way too soon and you wince.

<Aw, fuck no. No dude.>

You take his hand and lead it to your butt, deciding that now is as good a time as any to get here. You kiss him back, forcefully, and get his back against the seat how you want, almost in the corner, and he happily pulls you to straddle him with his hands on your arse. If he’s going to be grabby, that’s where you want it.

<Nice, Y/N.  You lead that asshole.>

Jules kisses around your neck and over your décolletage. He gets his hands back up to your breasts, pushing them up so he can bury his face in there, and you wonder if he knows they’re actually attached.

<Dude, they don’t come off. You’d think he’d’ve bought a fucking Karma Sutra type text in there somewhere.>

“Fuck, you’re so hot, Y/N,” Jules mumbles against you. “Can’t wait to get my cock in you.”

“Mmmm,” you say and your cheek to rest on his head. You look out the window and hope Dean can see how much you’d like some help here.

<You’re hotter than this, Y/N…. This is a fucking injustice.>  Dean’s practically whispering now, knowing there’s a good risk of Jules hearing him over the little sound you’re making. He’s not about to tell you to moan it up: he does not want to hear you moan for Jules.

“Where’s-” you begin, and catch yourself.

Dean picks up on your slip and fills you in.  <He’s onto the second room.  Keep going sweetheart, you’re gonna kick this job in the balls.>

He never calls you sweetheart, and it’s just another distraction.

Jules starts rolling your pelvis against his, his erection already prominent. You twinge at him pushing so hard against your softness, especially when your softness is so uninterested in him, but accept the suggestion and keep it going.

“Jules,” you ask softly. “How are you with taking direction?”

“What do you mean?” he slows and looks up at you.

“Would you mind if I told you what I like?” you roll to a stop. “If I told you exactly what to do?” Your words are soft and clear, on the edge of firm.

Jules stares at you and you wait with a neutral face, calm and patient.

“Are you…” he swallows deeply, “are you… a dom?”

 _Oh Lord._ You wait a beat, just for the effect… “We don’t know each other well enough for that conversation.”

<Shit. Y/N.  Nice play.>

He swallows again.  “What would you like?” he rasps.

“Remove the shoulder strap of my dress,” you instruct.  Jules goes for it but you clarify.  “Just the dress.  Slowly.”

<Nice stalling.>

Jules threads his fingers under the fabric on one side and slips it down your arm.

“Other one too.”

He does as instructed.

“Pull down the front,” you say softly.

Jules hooks his fingers over the edges and drags them over your black lace balconette bra.

You see his fingers flex to grab. “No hands Jules,” you warn. “Lips,” you say with clear articulation. “And tongue.”

Seems your focus just got found.

< _Shit._ >

Jules stares at you as he leans in, then ravishes your cleavage.

“Softly Jules,” you request, “it’s not a pie eating contest. Think of ice cream.”

Jules moans over you as he eases off and begins to lap. You tilt your head back and breathe, if only for the relief of being able to lead the situation.

<Holy fuck, Y/N,> Dean’s whisper is getting raspy.  <This is a game changer.>

“I wish you could see how this looks Jules,” you smooth you fingers through his short hair. “We must look so hot, to whoever could be looking in.”

<Y/N?… Are you fucking with me?>  Maybe he was warning you, but at that moment you felt it was your ass in this guys hands, your ass most likely to get fucked, or _fucked;_ so Dean could just deal with whatever it is you need to do to get this done.

“So hot,” Jules repeats mindlessly.

“Pull down my bra straps,” you direct.

Jules stops mouthing at your skin, leaving fat stripes of shine everywhere, and drags his fingers tips from your shoulder bones to your elbows. Then he waits for what you want.

You pause again and add, quietly, “Cups too.”

He chews his bottom lip before getting his fingertips along the edges. Again he pulls the fabric down, and your nipples pop over the lace. You aren’t thinking of what Jules is getting to see – he’ll be out of your life soon enough…

“What’s the lightest thing you can do with your tongue?” you ask.

“Uh, I-”

“Do that,” you order. “I want it to feel like a kitten using a duckling’s tail feather to fucking air dry me.”

“Or what?” Jules tries.

 _Fucking w h a t ?_ The look you give him must be a window to your mind because pale regret drops over his face.

In your ear, you hear the sound of teeth being sucked.

“Sorry,” he quavers. “I’ll be gentle.”

Your expression softens, just barely, but you’re firm when you say, “Make it look pretty Jules.”

Jules leans to your nipple and tentatively licks the tip. After a few laps, he begins with his lips and you moan appreciation. You can hear Dean’s breathing in your ear.

“Is it pretty?” you ask, eyes closed.

“Yeah, Y/N,” Jules replies, “so easy to make it pretty.”

You catch a muffled <Son of a bitch> and smile. Dean huffs a laugh and you imagine him smirking at you.

You reach down into Jules’ crotch and let your fingertips brush over his balls before dragging your hand up his hardness. He gasps and shudders a moan. You do it again, quite firmly, and he has to stop to close his eyes and grunt at the pressure.

“You like that?” you ask.

“Mmm,” he sighs.

“I asked you a question: Do you like that?” you repeat.

“Yes, Y/N,” he says, glancing up at you before going back to your breasts.

You look towards the window a little, thinking about how you have to wait… for…

Dean clears his throat. <Yes,> then, barely audibly, <God yes.>

You collect Jules’ jaw and tilt him up to you. “Do as I say and that will feel dull in comparison to your reward.”

“Okay,” he breathes.

You let go of his face and ask him in a more casual tone, “You ever done anything like this?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

<Fuck no, and I’m full of regrets.>

You can’t hide your smile. “Try the other side.”

Jules gets to it, and you hum in appreciation. “You’re such a fast learner Jules, so much potential.”

“Hhhummnum,” he says, lapping at you. His effort begins to bring some reward, your nipples hardening in the cool air and his touch catching things the way you like.

“That, yeah. Uh!” you encourage and pull his hair a little, directing his attention. “Yes, good Jules. Just the tip, just graze it.” You lead him on, gasping lightly as he learns, and answer each tingle with a pulse of your pelvis. Fleetingly you wonder if some of that breathy noise is in your ear. Soon you’re working your nerves against his erection and letting his tickles feed the sensation. “Oh, Yes! Uh!… Oh that feels good!… Oh! Stop! Stop there!” You pull his head from you and look down at him smiling. You drag your pussy up and down his erection and his eyes roll back to close.

“Thank you,” you coo and kiss him slowly and crisply on the mouth.

<Fuck, Y/N> Dean chokes.  <What are you fucking doin’ to me?>

“Do you think you could do that for me later?”

“Nnnng,” Jules grunts.

“Why does nobody answer my questions?” You look up, past Jules’ head.

“Yes, sorry,” Jules gasps. “Yes I can do that again.”

You look at Jules and wait, again, unmoving, pretending to decide what to do. But it’s not him you’re waiting on…

<…Yeah that.  And then some.>

You breath in, apparently decided, and hear Dean curse <Jesus Christ,> then he’s muffled and irate <Awesome. No, stay there.  He might hear the car doors.  No, just… get to the front of the house in case she needs you.>

You drag your fingers down the back of Jules’ head and hook a finger into his shirt buttons. You open them slowly while you listen to Dean whisper.

<Sam’s done, Y/N.  You’re free to get outta there.> 

You keep on with the buttons, leaving the last few done up, and slip your fingertips across Jules’ chest, thinking of how the colour is similar to Dean’s, but not quite the shape you want.

<You hear me, Y/N?>

“I wander what I’ll want next?” you sigh to yourself.

< _Y/N?_ >

“What would I want to see if I were watching us…?” you say. Jules is breathing heavily and you drag your fingers down his front to caress his hardness again. You let your fingers play with him as you fill the time, waiting for the reply.

Dean clears his throat, <I think…> he’s breathing heavily now, some sort of shuffling going on, <I think you’d want to see yourself satisfied.>

“Jules, you take instruction so well, I’m going to give you a proper lesson. That okay?”

Your eyes snap to his, determined and heavy, and the breath drops out of him.

“Yes,” he says, mouth open, body limp.

You move backwards and kneel on the seat before him, your knees spread as far as the cushion is wide. You hold your fingers loosely, behind your back, and coolly explain: “I’m going to show you what I like, in detail. I’ll talk you through it.”

“Okay,” he gapes.

“Then, I want you to do the same to me while I talk you through. On that second time, you won’t make me come.”

“No?”

“I want to come on your cock, Jules, not your fingers,” you explain, your diction practically pornographic. “So, no, but you had better get me damn close.”

“Mmm,” he nods nervously, biting his lower lip.

“Do you think you can listen and watch without touching me? Without touching yourself?”

Jules’ chest sinks, realising that, yes, touching himself was something he’d want.

<Shit, do you mean me too?>

“Can we all keep our hands to ourselves?” you reiterate.

<Not promising anythin’ Y/N.  We may not be friends after this.>

“Yes,” says Jules forlornly.

“I know you can be a good boy,” you coo. “Get comfortable.”

You loosen the tie at your waist and let the fabric drop before you drape it aside. Jules’ eyes widen as he sees the tattoo at the base of your sternum, it’s design previously obscured by the lacy edges. A quarter-second of panic comes and goes as he shows no sign of recognising the symbols behind the rosettes. His eyes trickle down your belly, strong from hunting and grave digging, and over the black lacy panties below.

You glide your fingertips over yourself and think of what you do when you’ve a room to yourself after a long, sweaty hunt with the boys. With Dean. You come back to your nipples and play with them a little, graze the tips and tap lightly. Your pinches are light and barely enough to tug. You hum and sigh at the sweet feeling and listen to everyone else breathe.

Your hands slide down to your groin. All the fingers of one hand hook around the thigh’s inner seam, pulling it aside to expose your pussy. You close your eyes and slip your middle finger between your lips, circling your clitoris a few times, then look at Jules again. He’s broken a light sweat around the temples.

“So I’m going to be real thorough about this Jules. I’m sure you won’t mind if I repeat stuff you already know.”

“Noh,” he sighs.

“See this?” you ask, spreading your labia with your first and third finger and tipping your bud, ignoring Jules’ _Oh God_. “This is my clitoris and it loves a light start.”

<Holy hell, Y/N, you’re gonna undo us both.>

You smile and decide to fucking go for it.

“Just roll it a little, with your finger tip, maybe a little tap,” your thighs flinch at the impact, “uh, but lightness to start with, okay?”

“Mmm.”

“It helps if you get some wetness from somewhere,” you dip your finger into your open mouth and curl your tongue around it, humming. Jules swallows, his fists clenching sporadically at his thighs.

Dean whispers a curse or two. It sounds like he’s trying to cover his noise.

“Circling around is nice,” you continue, “but I like that action best for my pussy, nice and firm.”

Dean groans in your ear and you come back to your clit. “If you were to use your tongue, Jules, this would be a whole different lesson, but for fingers, keep them wet and light till later.”

Jules can’t answer you much now and has begun rutting his hips back and forth, seeking friction in his trousers. The poor guy isn’t even wearing something firmer, like jeans, so he can work against a seam.

“If you pinch, Jules, you better make it a fucking light-touch – I’m talking eyelashes for chopsticks light – but a little roll between the finger and thumb – ah! Uh!” You clench your jaw and grunt at the goodness. “Oh, it’s worthwhile. Don’t do it too much,” you sigh, easing off yourself.

<Fuck. Yeah, you like the light brushy strokes,> Dean says.

“I like the light brushy strokes,” you confirm.

<You like the flicking with the fucking.>

“I like the flicking with the fucking,” you repeat - <Sweet Jesus, Y/N.  Just… _fuck_ -> \- and you add, “but I’m not sure I’m gonna let you double up like that Jules.  Maybe next time.”

“Nnng,” he coughs. “Y/N, do you think-”

“Sshhh, Jules,” you say and put your wet fingers on his mouth to hush, “I’m going to show you how to make me come.”

“Uh!” he almost squeaks it, torn between relief and voyeurism, and completely distracted by the smell of you on his lips.

<Uuuuuuuh, God, _please_ show him. >

Dean is starting to sound wrecked. You want to hear him so badly, suddenly desiring that rumble against your chest. Breath and whispers will have to do.

“This, Jules, it’s not pretty but by God it does the trick,” you say. You thread your fingers into your folds, your clit poking out between your second and third fingers and your pointer and pinky outside your full labia. You use your thumb to hold your panties aside so you can free your other hand and give your finger a slopping suck before coming back to start touching yourself again.

“Oh God, this, Jules, to have a cock in me, while this happens, is delicious. You gotta hold me firmly; not mean, just still. It doesn’t matter which way you go, up and down,” you get going with that action and curl your back, making noises to help Dean imagine, and Jules starts rubbing his palms up and down his thighs. “Or side to side - mmmm, oh shit - or even tapping - Ah!” you pop your head up, eyes closed tight and describe what you imagine. “Love a thick cock slipping in and out, Jules, fucking me, tipping that g-spot, that thickness pushing into my pussy. Want a cock that makes me feel _short._ Oh!”

Jules has started to grunt and make shallow thrusting actions away from his seat. His noises are desperate through his clenched jaw, but Dean’s been swearing since you’d changed hands and his _Yeah, that,_ _oh shit Y/N_ , _go for it,_ and _holy fuck_ is what you’re riding on.

You’re working hand is flat now, lightly slapping at your clit and hitting the fingers that hold it. You try to keep talking, just to lead Dean on. “Oh! God! Jules! I like it hard! Hard now! Uh! Right there! Make it ache!”

Jules whines “Yyeah” through his clenched jaw, practically thumping against the back of his seat.

“You’d come for me?” you pant, Dean’s breathy _oh shit, ohgod_ , behind you.

“Uh! Yes! I’ll come!” Jules pleads.

“Someone better,” you grind out and spread your fingers to access your whole clit. “Ah! _Come_ for me!”

“Uh! _Y/_ N!”

“Come! _Now!”_

Jules high cries of surprise and pleasure are mere background noise to the sound of blood rushing in your ears and the tremble you feel over your body.

< _U_ _UH-_ huh! Uh!..> You can only imagine Dean punching out these sounds. < _M_ mm… ho… Oh, crap! Fuck!…> You catch the sound of scrambling as he finally gets your point, and drops his shit. <Sam! Sam, get in there!…  Just bang the door!>  

You pant as you massage your mound, rolling your hips into your hand with Dean’s recovery the sweetest secret you’ve ever heard.  You listen to him puffing <Sonofabitch Y/N…  Holy hell> and grin and sigh.

When your eyes creak open they see Jules with his jaw is dropped, a few drops of sweat around his hair line, and he’s gaping at his lap, eyebrows tilted with stunned ecstasy.

**BAM-BAM!**

You both jump and look at the door. “Y/N?!” Sam’s voice is muffled through the hardwood. Thank goodness it’s hardwood too: Sam sounds pissed.

“Oh shit,” you breathe.

<Sam! Calm down! She doesn’t need saving, just… give her an out.>

“Fucking hell Y/N!” Jules puffs.  “Oh my _god_!  I jizzed my slacks!”  

You laugh a little and pinch his chin. “That’s coz you’re a good listener.” He’s too distracted to even notice that Sam called your name, or the grumbling response he’s giving to Dean right now.

“One minute!” Jules calls. He’s sitting there in a frozen shrug, shoulders up around his ears, wondering how the hell to cover up the wet patch in his pants.

<OK, _think_ my legs are working again.  I’m on my way… and you an’ me are gunna have words, Y/N. >  The impala rumbles awake and moves off. It’s closer than you’d imagined but Jules doesn’t hear that either.

You wrap your dress and tie it up, climbing up from the seat and discreetly knocking off the last of Jules’ drink. Wiggling your legs a little helps with the thrumming and wetness.

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure Jules. “Someone comes to your house like this, they can fuckin’ suck up whatever they meet.”

“Actually, _yeah!”_ Jules declares, suddenly riled. He stands, almost in one action, and wipes his brow a little, but still does up his jacket before striding over to the door and swinging it open, grand and proud. “What the _hell_ do you-”

 _“Y/N?”_ Sam steps in, furious and loud. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jules takes a full step back, starting at Sam’s volume and size, but collects himself quickly.

Sam looks at your high colour, the hickeys, and blinks and straightens awkwardly. When his eyes dart over to Jules he can’t help but notice the blot in his crotch. Jules’ reaction is to stand taller and stick out his chest. He’s practically bending backwards by now.

Sam clenches his jaw and tightens his mouth, trying desperately not to smile, and is soon twitching all over.

“Y/N,” he says firmly, focusing on you, “you said you were going to give us another chance.”

You swallow and look at Sam sullenly, then glance over to Jules. “Jules, I-”

Jules is looking at you, waiting to see what you’ll say. Seems he’s still letting you lead.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble pathetically. “He’s my husband. I should be trying harder than this.” You give him the most pitiful face you’ve got.

He takes a deep breath, resigns himself, and sets his jaw. “You better appreciate her Buddy,” Jules pipes up, pointing up at Sam.

<Oh _what?_ >  Dean must have the car in place already.

“O-Okay,” Sam stutters, frowning at him uncertainly, “I will.”

“Coz she’s a fucking woman!” Jules adds, pointing at you.

You hear a snorting sound from Dean and try not to flinch at the loud crackling that follows.

Sam looks at you for help and you decide to raise your eyebrows and deliver a slow, aloof blink: _Yes, Sam. Yes I fucking am._

Sam’s face says a solid _Don’t._

Sam looks back to Jules and assures “I- I’ll remember,” before reaching for your hand. “Thanks.”

You step toward Jules and give his arm a quick squeeze. “You were really good, Jules.”

“Really?”

“Best I’ve ever had,” you confide.

He frowns, nods sadly, and squeezes your hand before letting you go to Sam.

Dean has the good mind to hold in his laugh, a loud _pffffff_ sound breaking in your ear as soon as the door closes. His giggles keep you smiling all the way down the path.

You pause at the end of the driveway’s lighting, waiting for Sam to retrieve the secreted text, which is when he asks “Y/N, what did you do to him?”

“I swear, I barely touched the guy,” you say lightly.

You jog down the road to Dean waiting in the darkness and he starts to haul ass back to the motel.

Sam slings an arm over the seat to face you as you kick off your shoes. “Was that _cum_ in his pants?” he asks, incredulous.

“Nah, he spilled his drink,” you lie. “We were just talking about stuff. Feelings.”

Sam looks at Dean.

“What? Yeah,” Dean shrugs. “They just talked about how they felt.”

Sam turns around and you steal a glance at Dean in the mirror. He seems pensive, or stiff, and you’re a little sorry. Sorry enough to let it show. Then his eyes crinkle a little. He raises an eyebrow and you look out the window to chew your lips and wonder if this will change anything.

Sam squishes his face and looks around the car a bit. “Why does it smell so funky in here?”

Dean doesn’t move an inch, just focuses on driving.

“That’d be Jules’ house candles,” you figure. “I’m probably infused with it.”

“What the hell is it?” Sam winces.

“Some kinda wood?” you wonder. Dean clears his throat.

“God, it’s… earthy. Although that might be me,” Sam grumbles. “I’ve got garden soil all over my pants. And that wall was ridiculous. Came out looking like a deer hunter camouflaged in shrubbery.”

You grin at the image of Sam swearing and fighting bushes, chuckling “Lucky we sent the tall guy.”

“Yeah, well, I get first shower,” Sam declares, “coz I’m definitely the filthiest.”

Dean clears his throat again and you’re fighting to keep it straight now. “I dunno Sam,” you warn. Dean’s eyes snap to you in anticipation, but you look out the window. “I certainly feel like I’ve got something some wet heat could wash away.”

Dean breaks into a coughing fit and you frown, Sam frowns, and Dean shakes his head, waving off any concern as he pulls through.

A few miles pass in silence. Then Sam turns in his seat again. He looks like he’s about to ask something, or say something. Your head is turned but you watch him think, his eyes on your hickeys. He closes his mouth and kinda smiles at you, then he looks directly at Dean, watching him for a while.

Dean glances over, frowns a bit, but it only takes a few seconds for him to crack. _“What?”_

Sam just looks at him, more thoughtfully now, then at you… then back to Dean, and turns back to face the front. Another half mile goes by and you can see the motel’s neon sign. He takes a deep breath and says “IIIII’m gonna get my own room for the night.”

“What? _Why?”_ Dean bursts, way too defensive already.

“Because that was _not_ spilled drink in his lap,” Sam explains.

You close your eyes and bite your lips together.

“And you heard the whole thing,” he says to Dean.

“Yeah, so?” Dean’s practically flapping. “What’s that got to do with rooms?”

Dean pulls into the parking space as Sam gives him a hard glare. He turns off the car and tilts his head, waiting but weakening…

“'Some kinda _wood’_?!!!” Sam reminds him. He climbs out of the car muttering “And I get the fuckin’ wall.”

Dean sits there, unmoving, but looks at you again in the rear vision. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, and you’re not feeling shy…

You lean over and collect your shoes off the floor, shuffle over to open the door and ask him, “Wanna compare notes?”


	2. Prac Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes an effort to pay you back for your generosity during the job and shows you how much you inspired him with your lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also cross posted from my tumblr account

You lean against the motel room’s door frame, waiting for Sam to grab his things and go.  The look he gives you as he passes by is a new one: Apprehension? Wonder? Confusion?

Whatever, you can deal with that later.  He’s off to get his own room so you go through and use the bathroom before Dean can give you reason to pause.

After washing your hands, you lose some time looking at yourself in the mirror, trying to imagine what you must’ve looked like to Dean as you got yourself off in front of Jules, less than an hour ago.  It was easy to justify: Jules had to be properly distracted from any noise Sam might make, and a platonic chat would’ve ended up in a tour of the house’s antiques, for which you’d already mentioned an interest.  

Then, when you decided to look after yourself, which simultaneously occupied him, it seemed like an ideal compromise to having Jules all over you.  Not that he wasn’t a nice guy, but you weren’t attracted to him.   _At all._  Knowing that Dean was there, watching from the Impala, had been like a security blanket and some sort of kinky motivation you’d pretended was pretend.  But, really, you hadn’t faked a thing…  and Dean knows it.

You take a deep breath and decide to keep an open mind.   _Time to see what the ripple effect will be…_

The bathroom door opens onto the end of one of two double beds; the entrance, and Dean, are at the foot of the farther one.  On your right the kitchenette and wardrobe cover the wall, a narrow table and a few chairs nearly beside you.  

You look at Dean.  He opens and closes his fists as they hang beside him, the surveillance gear dropped by the door.  He’s staring at you intensely, which you can’t really interpret since he’s given you so little practise over the months.  You can’t stand it for long.  You walk to the sink and run a glass of water, downing it in two goes while you wait for him to figure himself out. _He’s the one who wants to have a talk, so let him talk._

He comes over to the bench, in no hurry, crosses his arms and leans on his hip, looking at you still, calculating.

You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow as you turn to him.   _Well? What’s up?_ But it isn’t cleanly done and you can’t keep from smiling a little.

That brakes him, a broad grin sweeping across his face and you look down at your toes to breathe and bite your lip.   _What the hell have I done?_ Seconds pass.

When you glance back up, his smile has gone all sideways and gooey, eyebrows bouncing a little and you _know_ he has an idea.

You shake your head and sigh again.  “I think I’m gonna go have that shower,” you say.

Dean pushes himself off the bench, looks you dead in the eye and says “Me too.”

You pause as you get his suggestion and give a shallow, thoughtful nod of _oookaaay_. He kicks off his shoes, takes off his watch and as he slowly heads for the bathroom you turn and walk beside him, steadily, and it’s like you’re trying to mirror each other.

At the doorway he gestures for you to go first and you do.  The toilet is directly ahead of the door with a narrow sink and bench beside it.  Next to that is the bath, a broad tub with a curtain and the shower down the square end, near the sink, and there’s a single fluoro tube high on the wall opposite.  You both end up standing beside the bath, facing each other, watching and waiting again.  

You’re not giving anything away. You’re not hiding your hands, or glancing about.  Your feet are still and your expression is open and waiting.  Watching, really. You will not be managed by Dean Winchester’s swagger.

And he seems to know it too.  

Dean pulls his lower lip between his teeth as he considers you, eyes glistening in anticipation.  You know his height but now, face to face in a small room, you’re starting to know your own.

“You’re certainly making up for lost time,” you comment.

“How do you mean?”

“All this eye contact,” you explain.  “Normally you barely look at me.”

His eyes blink in surprise. “You think I don’t look at you?”

“Best I can tell.”

“Y/N…” Dean says, a gentle, surprised smile .  “You’re eye colour’s the only thing I’ve got left to memorise.”

Your chest pauses for a second, breath suspended, but you don’t get to dwell on his words because he begins deliberately unbuttoning his shirt.  He’s constant and smooth, sliding it off his shoulders rather than flicking.

You stand and watch.

He doesn’t grin or smirk.  Just watches you see him.

He untucks his t-shirt and pulls it up his body, skin sliding over his ribs and lat muscles as he draws it up.  You survey it all: the tattoo, the way his shoulder blades flare while his face is covered, the hike of his lower belly from his waistband when he reaches, and then his shoulders and arm muscles coming back to rest as he chucks the fabric on the floor.  

You don’t let on what you think of him, that the smoothness of his chest is something you’d happily sleep on, that you’d use your tongue to make constellations of his freckles.  Or that the few times he’s carried you, from danger or to help, you’ve closed your eyes and memorised the contact between you. You keep it all behind abiding eyes and pleasant lips.

But you do crack the teeniest of smiles, just in the cheeks, when you think of what’s next.

He takes a bit of a breath and undoes his buckle - no rush - unbuttons and unzips his pants, and hooks his thumb into the waist band, sliding from front to back to ease them down.  You don’t break eye contact until he does, which is when he pauses, thinks, and decides to hook the waistband of his boxers too, removing them both together.

He drops the clothes and steps forward, kicking all the cotton back, and stands tall.  He lets his hands hang by his sides as he breathes, then licks his lips and somehow his expression – a minuscule twitch of the eyebrow or lips - asks you if you’re going to look.

So you do.  You see him, but although he has a healthy chub going on, leaning to the side, it’s his thighs and legs that distract you.  A light, curly matt of hair hides the contours, and you do, admittedly, take some time to see how the thigh bones eventually connect to the rib bones.

You look him in the eye again, noticing now how hard your heart is thumping and how your heat rises when you remember you’re next.  He sees it too and seems to be saying _Only if you want to_.

You watch him while your hands go to the ties on your side, but Dean’s eyes follow your fingers. Undoing your dress again, the fabric quickly falls away and he runs his gaze over the lace, over your curves and shadows.  His eyes trickle upwards to your bra and breasts.  

You let the dress slip off your form.  You know this bra and can merely relax and drop your shoulders to let the straps fall down.  He makes a stern face, and smirks, seeming to think that’s a mean trick.  

Your hands come to your waist and you slide them north.  In your peripheral vision, you notice Dean’s erection is growing and with every inch your hands move it bobs up a little more, in time with his pulse.  You push your palms over your breasts and catch the edge of the balconette’s lace with your fingers tips.  By the time you grip to pull the bra down, his cock is tall and rigid, nodding with fullness, like its trying to see what’s coming.

You drag the fabric down and watch Dean’s chest rise and fall.  As soon as you’ve revealed yourself, he looks back at your face, waiting for you to undo the clasp, breathing heavily through his nose and looking patient and thankful.

You step forward but not close and lean over, bending at the hip, and turn on the taps at the wall, waiting for the temperature to come good.  The steam begins to furl and you step back, saying “You first.”

“Naw, you-” he protests but you interrupt him with an offering.  You get your pointer and middle fingers under the waistband, your hands spread and flat against your hips and indicate that, if he steps in, you’ll remove these too.

“Yeah, okay,” he gives, instantly.  “I’m probably the dirtier of us.”

“Usually.”  You wait for him and once he’s in he just stands there, the shower on his back while he watches and waits for you to follow through.

Against the sound of spraying water, you slide your hands down your legs, leaning over the bath as you do.  From his heightened angle, and you being somewhat off-centre to him, he can see a profile of your breasts as they hang, the curve of your body from waist to calf, and as soon as the panties are on the floor you step into the bath too, left then right, standing before him for a second. He lets his lips part as he takes in the unbroken sight of your body, and you wonder if he knows what a gift it is to show you what he thinks of this.

You fold yourself and neatly sit on the round edge of the tub, knees together, and lean the heels of your hands on the rim to ease the weight.

“Go on,” you say, smiling a little.  

He smiles back and closes his eyes to duck backwards into the stream, running his hands through his hair as the water sluices down his form.  While he washes his face, you notice how the warm water is channelled beside his deltoids and down his groin.  He turns a little to find the flannel and soap and it takes everything you’ve got to not make a noise at the profile of his moving form. That _ass_. Those ribs.  And proper view of the reach of his cock.  

He turns away fully, cleaning his face and chest and you rest your elbows on your knees so you can support your head while you watch.  The view is just… decadent. You think you might just slide off the edge at this rate.  

As much as this game of look-don’t-touch is a good cardio workout, the idea of just going over and getting your breasts all slippery against him, feeling the curve of his cheeks against your tummy and hips, and having all of that wetness in your arms has you literally licking your lips.   _I have to get myself together._

Then he’s finished.  He’s facing you and rubs his hands through his hair a few times, wipes the water from his face and looks at you.

He notices you’ve changed position and flashes a smug smile as he says “Well, then… we’ve got a few things in common I see.”

You sit back up and shift yourself a little as you hold the rim again.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters and leans over, catching his weight on the sides of the tub and kneeling before you.  He’s so fast and smooth that you miss the moment where you’d catch your breath.

He rests his hands on your knees, then slides them around to cup the tops of your calves. You’re besotted with his clumped eyelashes, direction-less hair and how every drip that slips down his skin seems to be teasing your gaze south.

He pulls gently at the corners behind your knees and you move with it, sliding yourself down the chilled enamel until you’re sitting before him.  Your legs are slightly parted, feet either side of his knees, and your hands have slid out along the rim so that your elbows rest on the tub.

The wet patches where he’d touched your knees have already begun to dry from your heat.

“I know,” he begins, “…I know the hot water’s going but there’s no way I can watch you take a shower and keep my hands to myself.”

“What?” you gripe.  “I’m all sore from holding myself still while you did that!”

“Yeah, well, you’re the stronger one,” he says.  “I’ve been thinking about this since you undid your dress on that couch.”

His eyes quickly roam over you as he decides.  “I’ll help you shower after, I just…” he looks up at you, at your lips, “just, first…” he leans up and hooks you with his gaze as he comes close.  He grips the edge of the tub to steady himself, and you slide your hands forward to lay them over his.  All you can see is his face descending, full lipped and fresh…

His mouth lands on yours and you both slip your eyes shut.  Your hands race up his slippery arms to his reaching neck and jaw and take in the shape of him moving as he works the kiss a little.

He slides his hands along the rim to beside your head, elbows resting against the tub’s wall, and he tilts the kiss, ‘hmmm'ing as you roll with it and your tongues meet over your lips.  You kiss and kiss and he cups behind your neck to pull you upright, pushing off the back of the bath, but takes you back to that spot again.  He shifts above you, your face eagerly following as your lips are locked, letting your head grind on the rim while his hands slip to your throat and shoulders.

He lets up a little, kissing over to your ear, both of you bursting breaths as your mouths are released.  His fingers trip over your chin, collar bone, ear, and hair as he licks and mouths at your skin.  He works more firmly and you hum little moans at the feel of him over you, the dampness leaving a cool reminder of what he’s touched.  He gets his nose in under your jaw groaning “Jesus, Y/N,” and pauses for a moment.

“Mmm, yeah,” you puff pathetically.  His thighs are now pushing against the backs of yours and in the cold air you can feel the ache of what you did to yourself earlier calling for more, your woken lips waiting impatiently and your pussy near falling open for some thickness.

“So, these,” Dean mumbles as he takes a hand down to your ribs, holding you firmly enough to wake your anticipation, the other leaning against the bath.

He drops down to your breast and nuzzles around the softness, gently, reverently, then furls his tongue over your nipple, pulling it into his mouth to lightly suck, tug and massage with his lips.  You drop your mouth open to moan “Oh! Oh!” on each breath, the pitch alone sounding desperate.  He starts grazing your tip with his tip, working your nerves, before wrapping his mouth over the nipple, as much as he can gently take, and moans deeply against you.  You moan back.  Your hands have slipped into his hair, but your tugging doesn’t shift him.  Not that you want him to stop; you just can’t not hold on.

He gives the same to your other breast, and you try not to squirm as you recognise the routine, knowing what’s coming.  But this time he tugs some more and licks you an octave higher before coming back to kiss you, messy and keen.

“Uh _my god Dean!_ ” you whine against him, your jaw clenched. “Fuck!”

“Good?”

“Exquisite,” you correct.

“Huh,” he smiles. “I think you’re gonna like this.”

“What about the hot water?”

“Fuck it,” he mumbles, still kissing as you hold his head, “I’ll lick you clean later… Can you sit up a bit?”

“What about your knees De-”

“They’re fine.”

“But you keep shifting-”

“Quit worrying!”

“Wait, if we go down the other end are you gonna drown, doing whatever you’ve got planned?”

Dean sits back on his feet and moves his legs a little.  He’s leaning his forearms on the rim and you can tell he’s relieving the discomfort of bone against the cold, hard surface.  You glare at each other a little.  “No,” he concedes, matter-of-factly.  “Nope, don’t need a snorkel for this.”

“Right then,” you decide and pull yourself out of the curve.  He unfolds himself to stand and actually gets out of the bath to let you past.  

You step toward the stream of water but avoid getting wet much above the waist – no need to freeze – and lay your back against the square wall of the tub. Your legs are straight and your shins and knees get the lukewarm rain.

Dean steps back in, he crouches in front of you beyond the water, and you wonder how he’s managing with his erection bouncing around and _waiting_ so much.  He slides his hands over your feet and up your shins a little, looking over your legs.  You see his gaze work its way up to your groin and pause there for two seconds before snapping up to your eyes.  His fingers wrap around your ankles and direct your knees to bend, placing your feet apart and under the water.  Again, he glances at your crotch, your exposed pussy hazy through the stream.

He moves towards you, directly through the shower, a little higher than you.  This image of him, his form parting the water as he nears, his shadow cast over your corner from the crappy single light, his dripping size almost looming, it all yanks your pulse back to a race.  

“Lift up?” he half instructs and you grab the rim to raise yourself.  He sits directly in front of you, the spray high on his back, and loosely crosses his ankles.  His hands hold your ribs and guide you to sit inside the circle of his legs, your shoulders leaning back on the tub.  He shuffles forward a bit, getting comfortable and working his legs against your lower back some more.  Hardness leans against your neck and shoulder bones, but you can lean forward if you need.  You’re still not happy that he’ll be comfortable for long, but keep it to yourself.

“Happy?” he grouses.

“Happi _ **er**_ ,” you say.  “At least one of us is warm.”  Your hands have landed on his belly, and you slip your fingertips up and down his rib ripples and belly cush.

“Yeah,” he admits, running his hands up and down your arms a little.

“You’re probably a bit more comfortable too,” you add.

He glares at you, eyebrow cocked, chewing his tongue over your words.

“Hey, you know on Monday when we were talking to the wiccan experts.  One wore green and the other wore, what was it?”

“Aqua,” he answered suspiciously, waiting for the point of this conversation to become clear.

“And I said it was?”

He mulled for a moment… “Teal.”

“Yeah.”

He was thoughtful for a beat, then said “No, but you said 'Yeah, that’s right, the woman in aqua,’ and we went to the pizza joint for lunch.”

“No, I put my hand on your arm,” you demonstrate as you explain, repeating your words and intonation accurately, “and said 'You’re _right_ , she _was_ wearing aqua…’ and I smiled at you… and asked “Do you think we could have pizza instead of burgers today?'”  

Dean gives you a flat, stunned glare. “And we had _pizza_ ,” he almost whispers.

“Yeah,” you nod, leaning in, “you had pizza.  I got pasta.”  When your lips get close enough to touch his you add “And it was fucking teal.”  

You kiss him pertly and croon “So how about you tell me I’m right about your knees, and you’ll get what you want.”   You kiss him some more, watching him frown at you, his pouting lips absently kissing back while he thinks.  You shiver a little at the droplets coating your shoulders and chest.

“I feel so betrayed,” he mutters , his hands resting on your back.  You kiss around his cheeks and chin as you answer, “You like pizza and it was teal.”

“It was fucken _aqua_!” he corrects sternly.

You stop and slap your hand over his mouth, your thumb tucked under his chin, and raise a feisty eyebrow. “The next time we’re online I will _school_ you in the difference between aqua and teal and until then I will happily remind you that we always, _always_ , eat where you want because you’re a whining baby whenever you don’t get your way about food.  If _I_ want something different I have to _make_ _you_ want it first.  Do you know what it’s like, Dean, to be constantly dependent on your gut for choice?   _Hmmm?_ ”

You shake his head for him and soften your tone.  “No. So build a bridge and get over it.  You may feel manipulated, sweetheart, but it’s because I don’t feel I like have a choice.”

You stop and notice he’s staring.  You feel his fingers pressed into your bones, and the tight rise and fall of his chest.  You take your hand away from his mouth and wait to see if his reaction will be to argue, or… something else.  

He runs his tongue over the back of his teeth as he looks at you.  You feel your chest tighten too.

Dean leans into you again and has you against the tub with his closeness, the cold surface making you draw breath.  When he speaks, his voice is firm and low, pushing you back as strongly as his hands ever have. “You’re right, Y/N.  This is a better spot to sit.” He drags his hands around your ribcage and down your belly.  His knuckles drift over your damp hair and he lays his hands on your inner thighs, this thumbs pointing directly at your opening, fingers spread firmly over your muscles.  “And it was teal.”

Your loins freaking gird themselves, and you swallow. “See?” you say weakly. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

“Sure does.”

His hands start to move, and even though he’s so close to you, close enough to nudge noses, your eyes flutter shut so you can listen with your skin.  His fingers move up to your lower belly, then come together over your softness, knuckles caressing.  He slips both thumbs between your folds and delicately collects each lip in a light hold.  He slides his thumbs about a little, massaging the inner lips and the hidden roots of your clitoris.  Then he gently pulls, separating your labia, and it has you lightly gasping, your noises barely audible over the water.  

Dean kisses you now, swallowing any noise, and adds more fingers to each side, getting a better grip and spreading your vulva more and more, somehow absently massaging your clitoris with the soft, moving tension.  You start pulling your breath through your nose, finally breaking the kiss to gasp against his mouth, your fingers digging into his arms.  You can’t move away, or up or anything, but try to keep kissing while he simply pleasures you there, surprising you with his movements, shifting the flesh around, tickling things without contact.

He slips his fingers down, one hand circling a few fingers around your opening, and he gets the other with a finger tip hidden between the folds, paused on the end of your clitoris.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper, “shit, Dean.”

“You like the light brushy strokes,” he echoes from earlier.

“Mmmm,” you answer, “I’m gonna like anything, Dean.  You’re good at this.”

“You’re always so right,” he mumbles.

“Oh _Lord_ ,” you mutter and place a hand on his neck.  You try to caress and stroke, to give him some nice sensation back, but all you can do is react.  

He moves your clit in little circles as he winds a finger into you, and your breath aches into his mouth.  He feels his finger slipping easily, your pussy roomy with want, and quickly gets two in there.  “Ah!” you cry, and he collects your lower lip between his.

His attention to your clit becomes firmer and quicker and you feel your blood buzz across the region, nerves trembling like water on a drum’s skin.  His fingers start to thrust, a third joining in, and he nudges your head back to suckle and mouth at the dip under your jaw, taking your pulse with his tongue.  

You feel him get a thumb against your nub too, a light pinch rolling you like he’s fiddling with a stud and your voice jumps.  That, right there, with your head tilted back and your throat tight, is when he plunges his fingers, finding that cushy patch and starts rubbing it as he works your nerves.

You grab at his head and arm, then slip down to his forearm, feeling a relentless high approaching. You grab at his cock, firmly, and slide your hand up and down once. Dean’s head pops up and a loud moan punches out of him.  He straightens and places his lips on yours, sealing your mouths together and stilling himself, pausing everything, fingers deep, clit held, and your high moan fighting to escape.

The breath from his nose billows across your cheeks before he releases your lips and pins your head there chin to chin.

“You wanna come?” he puffs.

You try to concentrate.  “I wanna come on your cock,” you stumble.

“Me too,” he says, “but that needs a condom.  You fucking move a inch and I’m done.”

“Mmm,” you pant, still holding on.  

“I’ll get you back sweetheart,” he rolls your heads so that your foreheads meet, the skin slipping from mist and sweat, “I’ll get you back to here.”

You loosen your grip and ease your hand away, placing it back on his forearm as it was.

“Hold my head,” he requests.

“Here?” you say, and slip your fingers behind his ear, stroking lightly.

“Yeah, that’s nice,” he says and takes a deep breath to relax.  He kisses you a few times, slack and open. “You ready?”

“So ready I’m scared,” you confess and open your eyes a moment to see his heavy gaze disappear into your neck again as he surges his knuckles against your softness. He lets go of your clit and begins swiping back and forth, furiously stimulating you.  His mouth latches onto your pulse point againn and he rubs inside, three maybe four times, before you’re calling out louder than you’ve ever heard yourself, your orgasm torrential, vibrating you so hard you can hear it in your bones.

Minutes pass.  You can hear your breath, his breath, the steady shhhhhhh of the water, and he has you.  Everything about you is slack, your head resting on the lip of the tub again, and his cheek on yours.  He’s calmed himself enough to move comfortably, and you lift your head to give an earnest kiss, one he returns with more strength than you have right now.

He starts feeling around your hair, finding and carefully removing hair pins and such to let it out.  You rest your forehead on his shoulder and feel the lovely tickle of his fingers being so gentle and attentive.  When he’s sure they’re all gone (now on the floor beside the tub), he runs the pads of his fingers up and over your scalp and holds your head up again for more kissing.  Every breath you take is a sigh.

He shuffles you both, butt cheeks squeaking against the wet surface and you share the it-miraculously-still-has-hot-water shower.  He brushes your hair back as it soaks and after a while, as he lathers your body with suds, you watch him look after you.

“You sure running your hands over my soapy boobs is going to help with that hard on?” you ask.

“Not in the slightest,” he quips, then says candidly, “It fucking aches!”

You giggle in horror, “I bet it does, you poor man.”  You start to untangle, yourself.  “Come on, go get dry.”

Dean slides backwards and slowly climbs out of the shower.  He towels himself off while you rinse your hair and wash away the last of the sweat and soap.  By the time you turn the taps off he’s holding up a towel for you and helping you out.

“Not too wobbly?” he asks, drying up and down your legs.

“No,” you say, a little surprised.  “No, I’m good.  Think a part of me knows we’re not done.”

“Oh yeah,” he says, rubbing your back and arms roughly, “which part is that?”

“I’ll let you know when you find it,” you reply.

He drapes the towel over your head and kisses you again before heading out to the main room.  You finish off the drying enough for your liking and tuck the towel around your body.  

From the foot of the bed you stop and see him at his bag, turned away and, you presume, fishing out a condom.  

“Aw, Dean,” you say sadly, “your butt is so red from sitting in that hard tub!”

“Is it?” has asks, coming back to stand in front of you and chucks the pack on the bed.

“Bright red,” you nod.

“I think you’ll find that’s _teal_ ,” he corrects with an insolent smirk.

“You’re such a little shit!” you scold and go to slap his shoulder, or something, but he catches your wrist, fighting off your arms to wrap them behind you growling “Fucken _come 'ere_ ” and roughly kisses you.  He goes from nought to 100 in half a second and his strength on you takes your breath away.  

Then he snatches off your towel and has your head against his, kisses lapping at each other, his body dry, smooth and hot against yours as you grab at him, and all his hard and soft parts are nudging you backwards.  Without stopping, he lifts you and wraps your legs around him, grunting as you bump against his tender erection, and climbs onto the bed to drop you somewhere near the pillows.  Inside the hold of your limbs, he reaches over to the condom, rips it open and slides it on, and is back on you before you can comment.

You can’t keep your hands still and let them slide all over his torso, neck and hair, whatever you can reach and pull on – his waist, ass, pressing his burning belly to yours with your hand on the valley of his back.  

He drops his hand between you and you lift your hips for him, your legs half pulling, half threading into his. He finds you still wet from before and nudges the head of his cock into you. “Okay?” he breathes against your face.

“Yeah,” you get out, barely, and he pushes into you in one move.  Both of you moan openly at the sensation of being full and consumed.

“Okay?” he repeats.

“Yeah, go,” you say.  And - _holy shit_ \- does he take instruction well.  

Instantly, he’s ramming into you with beats as fast as your heart.  He leans his head on your temple and moans, breathy curses bouncing off your skin as you bear down and grasp at him.

You lift your knees to feel him deeper and he grunts into you, his open teeth landing on your neck and he just _pumps_. He gets his elbow next to your head and wraps his hand around a rail of the bed head (apparently a lot closer now), using it to anchor himself.  He feels perfect over you and in you, so much thickness and reach hitting exactly the places neglected so far.

Dean puts one hand on your belly, down near your public bone with his thumb on your clit, and presses so that his cock drags against your g-spot on every thrust and pull.

“Oh, Christ! _Dean!_ ” you cry and snatch at whatever your hands are grabbing right now, scratching his skin.  Your voice climbs more, your orgasm blooming this time as your pussy is pushed all ways and that spot is stoked hot again.  It warms your body in waves as you swell around him.  

Dean’s right behind you, gasping, “Oh, God, _Y/N!_ Uh! UUHu-huh,” and he puffs a while before slumping against you.

You’re spent.  He’s spent.  But you slowly slither your limbs about and smear yourself on each other in a lazy, grateful hug, hums and huffed curses over each other, and eventually roll sideways, heavy with breath and nose to nose.

…

“You know, I didn’t think I was a dom,” you say.  The room is dark and you’re tangled under the covers with a near-comatose Dean.  Empty glasses of water sit on the bedside table and the pillow is damp from your hair.

“What makes you think you are?” he mumbles.

“You came in the car,” you remind him.

“I did not!” he whinges, protesting too much again.

“Okay, for one, Sam was right about that smell,” you explain, “and two, I heard it.”

“'You _heard_ it’?” he repeats doubtfully.

“Yeah,” you look at him. “That was the same sound I heard tonight…. You jizzed your slacks.”

“Oh God,” he moans, snuggling you closer.  “I didn’t _jizz my slacks_ -”

“Well, I bet there’s a pile of grotty napkins in Jules’ garden somewhere.”

“Poor Jules.”

“Poor, poor Jules.”

You stare into the darkness a little longer…. “Seriously Dean, I can’t believe how pissed I am that you fucking disobeyed me.  I thought I told you to keep your hands to yourself-”

“Juleses Christ, Y/N,” he gripes and you laugh at the terrible pun, “I _did_. The only way you’re gunna keep my hands off myself is by being in arm’s reach.”  

Dean squeezes you extra tight, nuzzles his face into your neck so that his lips are against your skin, and slips a hand to settle on your breast.  You pick it up, kiss his palm and put it right back where it was.  His lips move against your neck one last time before you both slip into an exhausted, long sleep.


End file.
